Weapons of Mass Deception Read online

  “What? You can’t name any, McHugh? You are a worthless piece of shit, McHugh. Why don’t you just wash out now and save the taxpayers some money?”

  “No, sir!” Why don’t you eat shit and die, you loser?

  “Name all the classes of destroyers in the Fleet, McHugh.”

  Brendan took a deep breath, ready to belt out another “I’ll find out, sir,” when he heard her. Liz’s voice, high-pitched, musical with always the hint of a laugh behind it, floated down the passageway. “Go Navy, sir. Beat Army, sir.”

  As fourth-class midshipmen, or plebes, they were required to double-time through the corridors of Bancroft Hall, make only right-angle turns, and to “sound off” at every one. Her voice was getting louder and timed with her footfalls as she squared her corners. She was coming toward them. Brendan held back a sigh. She was coming to save his ass—again.

  No, Liz, I can handle this dickhead, just stay away.

  She appeared at the end of the passageway, a slim figure made smaller by her dark uniform. She squared the corner to face them, yelling out loud enough for Fermit to hear. “Beat Navy, sir!”

  Had it not been more serious, Brendan might have burst out laughing. Fermit’s face went white, his jaw hanging open as Liz trotted down the polished hall toward them. As a plebe at the Naval Academy, everything—everything—centered on beating West Point at any event where the two schools competed. A plebe shouting “Beat Navy” was an insult akin to saying your mother had sexual relations with farm animals. Fermit’s mouth worked open and shut a few times as Liz reached them.

  “Plebe halt!” he screamed at her. Liz froze. Fermit blinked at Brendan as if wondering why he was there. “Shove off, McHugh. You, Soroush”—his trembling finger wavered at Liz—“up against the wall. Name all the classes of destroyers in the Fleet. Go.” He bent over so his face was right in Liz’s ear when he screamed at her.

  Liz refused to meet Brendan’s eye as he pushed off the wall and squared the corner. He could hear her rattling off the names of destroyers as he trotted away. He checked the clock. Twenty minutes until formation. He felt bad about leaving her, but there probably wasn’t a question Fermit could think up that Liz couldn’t answer.

  He was almost at his door. A quick shower, a fresh shirt, and a review of some likely quiz questions before the evening meal were what he needed to clear his head. He would use that mnemonic trick Liz had taught him.

  “Plebe halt.”

  Oh shit, not again. He froze.

  “Come in here, McHugh.”

  Double shit.

  The voice floated out from an open doorway to his left. He did a military turn toward it, ready for the worst.

  “Don’t just stand there, McHugh. Get in here.”

  Brendan trotted to the door and rapped his knuckles on the jamb. “Midshipman Fourth Class McHugh, requesting permission to enter—”

  “For Christ’s sake, will you get the fuck in here, McHugh? And stop shouting at me.” Mark’s black-stockinged feet were propped up on his desk and he was stripped to a white T-shirt and gym shorts. His blue eyes were warm, adding to the power of his smile.

  “At ease,” he said.

  Brendan went to parade rest, his hands crossed in the small of his back, senses on full alert. Mark’s approach seemed relaxed enough, and he had a reputation among the plebes of the company as a “cool” upperclassman—i.e., not an asshole—but Brendan had never spoken to him.

  “For fuck’s sake, McHugh, relax. I’m not going to bite your goddamned head off. I’ll leave that to dicks like Fermit.” He spit out the second-classman’s name like a bad taste in his mouth.

  Brendan, still wary, allowed his hands to drop to his sides and his shoulders to ease down a notch. Be careful—this is how they get you.

  Mark chewed his lip. “Fair enough,” he said. “You don’t trust me, and that’s probably a good thing for your own survival. You’re a hockey player, right?”

  Brendan nodded. “Yes, sir,” he replied in a normal voice.

  “I’m recruiting for the sailing team. How about you crew for me in the off-season?”

  Brendan’s eyes must have widened because Mark laughed out loud and let the legs of his chair hit the polished floor. “No tricks, McHugh. I’m on the level. I need a crew and I think you’d do a good job. Plus, it gets you away from the Hall for a few overnights and weekends . . . away from that dickhead down there.” He cocked his head toward the door to the hallway, where they could both hear Fermit screaming at Liz. His voice had reached a hysterical pitch, probably because she had answered all his stupid questions and he was frustrated.

  Brendan nodded at Mark. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good choice, McHugh,” Mark laughed. “Shove off, I’m going to catch a catnap before dinner.”

  Brendan turned toward the door and placed his uniform cap on his head.

  “Oh, and McHugh,” Mark called to him. “Bring your friend, what’s her name—Soroush? I can use her, too.”

  Brendan blew out his breath. Crewing for Mark had made his plebe year at the Academy bearable. It gave him and Liz a place to get away from the Hall for a few hours or a weekend. He owed Mark everything.

  Screw the funeral. He would remember Mark the way he would have wanted to be remembered: sitting in the stern of the yawl, feet up, blue eyes hidden behind his Ray-Bans, a smile on his face from the last joke he had shouted out to them. Not as a closed casket.

  Of course, all that was Mark before 9/11, the day that changed them all. Mark was a Marine first lieutenant when it happened, and he was part of the first wave of troops that entered Iraq. Overnight he went from carefree Mark to Marine Mark. The once-playful blue eyes turned the color of ice and the jokes became less frequent.

  Brendan looked over his shoulder. Liz was hunched over a chart in the stern, her legs braced against the bulkhead for stability. She had been looking at the same chart for twenty minutes, a pencil loose in her grip.

  “Hey, Liz, you okay?”

  She raised her head, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, but Brendan could see the tracks down her cheeks. The wind blew her short, dark hair across her face, but she made no attempt to push it away. She smiled at him. Well, she tried to smile.

  It’s okay, Lizzie. I miss him, too. That’s what he should have said, but instead he plastered his face with a wide grin. “Any idea where we are?” he asked. That was Mark’s favorite line.

  This time she gave him a real smile. “Does it really fucking matter? We’re not in the Hall, are we?” They both laughed—for real—but Brendan felt the sting in his eyes again.

  Her face froze. Liz stood, her finger pointing to the starboard side of the boat. “Man overboard,” she screamed. Brendan saw a flash of red hair whip by the gunwale.

  The crew reacted instinctively. As Liz kept her finger pointed at the target, Brendan brought the thirty-six-foot yawl around. The crew of eight called to one another, and Brendan took a mental tally of the missing voice. He needn’t have bothered. From the red hair, he already knew it was Riley.

  He swung the helm to bear on Liz’s pointing finger, fuming to himself. The mainsail was down in heaps on the deck and he started the engine. Once the nearby boats saw that Hornet was able to recover their man, they kept their sails full and stayed their courses. Brendan watched the regatta flash by them.

  Midshipman Fourth Class Donald Riley was his and Liz’s attempt to pay it forward. Just like Mark had done with them, when he and Liz were named co-captains of Hornet, they agreed they would pick a plebe from their company to join their crew. It would be their way to give back, their memorial to Mark’s generosity of spirit.

  Riley was a terrible plebe, there was just no other way to say it. Brendan was only 5’10”, but Riley was even shorter. And heavier, a lot heavier. The kid had been off and on “Sub Squad,” Academy slang for the midshipmen who failed their quarterly PT tests, and without help from Liz and Brendan, he’d probably still be there. He was their project, and they’d pic
ked a doozie.

  Still, the kid had skills. With a near eidetic memory, Riley consumed information like most people breathed air, and some claimed his computer skills were hacker level. Unlike Brendan, this kid never had any issue with memorization, and his academic scores were tops in his class. But that wasn’t what had made Liz and Brendan choose him.

  Riley was one of the post-9/11 crop of midshipmen, the ones who never would have considered a military career had they not been touched by the terrorist attack. His uncle, a bond broker, had been in the World Trade Center when the planes hit. Riley never spoke to him about it, but Brendan had heard that his uncle managed to call their home answering machine minutes before his tower collapsed.

  No, they’d made the right choice with Riley. What the kid lacked in physical prowess he made up for in guts.

  Liz dropped her hand and picked up the tethered life ring. She swung it wide, and Brendan watched the orange ring arc over the chop toward Riley’s pale face and red hair. Brendan killed the engine to stop their headway. Two more crew members took the rope from Liz and hauled Riley toward the boat. When he was close enough, they reached over the gunwale and hoisted Donald Riley into the cockpit.

  The boy collapsed to the deck, splashing water over Brendan’s Docksiders, his pale belly spilling out from under his shirt. One of the crewmen muttered “fucking Riley” under his breath and took a seat on the bench.

  Liz whirled on him. “What’s your problem, Richardson? Have you forgotten we’re in a race here? Move it!”

  The two crewmen scrambled forward to the winches as Brendan swung the helm and put them on a bearing to fill the mainsail again.

  Liz knelt next to Riley. “You okay, Don?”

  Riley sat up. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry, Liz. I just slipped and went off the side. It happened so fast . . .”

  Liz held out her hand and pulled him onto the bench next to her. “Go get some dry clothes on, Don, and then we need you back on station. We’re in a race here, or have you forgotten like those other knuckleheads?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m on it.” Riley gave her a bright smile. He slid forward and disappeared into the tiny cabin.

  Brendan kept his face impassive as he watched from behind his dark glasses. He was going to miss her when they graduated, but she’d make a great officer—and besides, Marine green was a good color for her.

  He watched Liz angle her body as the deck canted beneath their feet again. They had one of the faster boats in the regatta; if they kept this kind of speed on they might even place in the top five. She stepped back until she was next to Brendan. She bumped his shoulder with hers.

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” she said softly.

  “Does it really fucking matter?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Tehran, Iran

  09 April 2003 – 1430 local

  Al Jazeera was broadcasting live from Firdos Square in Baghdad.

  Hashem had the sound muted, but the images on the screen needed no words. A US military M88 armored recovery vehicle was in the process of pulling down a statue of Saddam Hussein in front of thousands of screaming Iraqis. The iconic thirty-nine-foot statue, erected in honor of Saddam Hussein’s sixty-fifth birthday, depicted the dictator with his open hand raised in friendship. But now there was a heavy chain wrapped around his neck and the statue leaned over at a twenty-degree angle. With a snap, the structure fell and hordes of Iraqis rushed to spit on the image and beat it with their shoes.

  Baghdad had fallen.

  Hashem had always assumed Saddam Hussein’s forces would fall, but the speed with which the Iraqi forces folded surprised even him. He shook his head and drew fiercely on the last of his cigarette before crushing it out in the overflowing ashtray.

  A mere three weeks from the time the Americans entered the country until they took Baghdad. Unbelievable. CNN had taken to calling it the Battle of Baghdad. What battle? With a force that large it took almost three weeks just to drive there from Kuwait.

  The crawler on the bottom of the screen said the whereabouts of Saddam and his two sons were unknown. Hashem wondered idly if he should have tied up all the loose ends from his last interaction with the Iraqi regime. No, he decided, killing Uday would have inflamed an already tense situation between their two countries. Still, with this latest news, the consequences would have been nil.

  The door to the private room at the restaurant began to open, and Hashem shifted the ashtray to the sideboard, brushing cigarette ash from his suit jacket as he stood. His brother wore the robes of his office, the cream-colored qabaa. The garment fell from his thick shoulders, and a white turban framed his round face. Despite his fifty-one years, his beard was barely graying.

  Hashem took a knee before his half brother. “Your Eminence, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  His brother nodded to the guard at the door to leave them. “Hashem! Off your knees, my brother. Rise, please.” He grasped Hashem’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  Despite his kind protests, the obeisance was part of their routine. Aban always liked to be reminded of his office, and Hashem felt obligated to pay his respects to his elder brother, the holy man. So they played the game each time they met.

  “Let me look at you.” Aban grasped him by the biceps, holding him at arm’s length. The older man stood a head shorter than Hashem, and even though thirteen years his elder, Aban’s round face and youthful features made them seem much closer in age.

  “You look like shit, brother.” Aban shook his head. “It’s those cigarettes. American cigarettes, no less!” He barked out a command. The door snapped open, and his bodyguard filled the doorway. Aban pointed to the overflowing ashtray. The man swept the refuse onto a tray and disappeared without a word.

  Hashem licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette now more than ever. The sharp corner of the Marlboro package inside his jacket pocket pressed against his ribcage. To keep his hands busy, he poured the remains of his cold tea into the trashcan and drew fresh cups for himself and his brother.

  Aban had seated himself at the table, his short legs spread wide beneath his robes, his belly sagging to touch his thighs. He pursed his lips as he watched the replay of the scene in Firdos Square. Every few minutes, Al Jazeera showed a split screen with a replay of the statue hitting the ground on the right side and some mindless commentator babbling on the left. They had cut the head from Saddam’s statue now and were dragging it through the streets, where Iraqis, features twisted with rage, smacked the face of their former dictator with their shoes.

  The muted Al Jazeera network cut to a White House briefing with the US Secretary of Defense. He cackled silently, peering over the lectern nearsightedly. The news crawler said: RUMSFELD CLAIMS “EXCELLENT PROGRESS.” BATTLE OF BAGHDAD “AHEAD OF SCHEDULE.” Aban’s lips twisted.

  “First the abomination of Israel at our doorstep, then we are labeled as part of Bush’s Axis of Evil, now this. The American noose tightens, brother.” As if making his point, he tugged at his collar. He took a loud slurp of tea and thunked the clear glass cup down on the tabletop. Tea sloshed onto the linen cloth. He turned to Hashem, his eyes fiery like when he gave his Friday sermons on television—Aban was famous for the length and ferocity of his Friday sermons. “Meanwhile, we make empty threats, religious protestations that ring hollow on the world stage. Allah wants us to be bold, to strike at the heart of this cancer . . .” He trailed off as he studied his brother’s face.

  “You have news for me, Hashem?” His voice took on a hopeful tinge.

  “I have the devices, Your Eminence,” Hashem replied. He could barely contain the excitement in his voice. “The weapons that will allow you to fulfill the will of Allah.” It was all he could do not to laugh out loud at his brother’s openmouthed response.

  “How?”

  “Saddam was terrified the Americans would find their weapons of mass destruction.” Hashem nodded at the silent screen where Saddam’s golden statue was falling for the hundre
dth time. Al Jazeera and CNN were rife with talk of the mysterious WMDs, but no one could find them. The Americans were rapidly becoming the butt of an international joke.

  “It seems he had good reason to be concerned. Technically we are only holding them for safekeeping, but I think we can assume they are ours now.” He laughed. In the first Gulf War, Iran had held Iraqi warplanes for “safekeeping.” The Iranian Air Force still used those planes today. Safekeeping indeed. Still, there was a big difference between a MiG fighter and a nuclear warhead.

  “Do the Americans know we have them?” his brother asked.

  Hashem shook his head. “I took precautions.” I should have killed Uday.

  Aban’s belly quivered beneath his robes, and he beamed at Hashem. “Brother, you are truly a man of your word.”

  Hashem knew what this could do for Aban’s career if—when—they executed an attack. A strike against Israel would make Ayatollah Khomeni’s shot to international stardom following the 1979 overthrow of the Shah seem like child’s play. Aban would become a world leader overnight; President Bush would have his Axis of Evil words turn to ashes in his mouth.

  Still, there was work to do before they were operational weapons. Much work to do. He cleared his throat.

  “There are complications, Aban,” he said. “The Iraqis developed warheads, but their work was sloppy, rudimentary at best. It will take time to make them viable weapons and secure missiles and launching systems for them—outside normal channels, of course. In the meantime, I have established a base at—”

  Aban held up his hand. “Please, do not say. For now, the less I know about this, the better. I trust you, Hashem, and that is enough.”

  Hashem swallowed his words. The hiding place was the best part of the plan.

  He could recall the trip as if it were yesterday. Just the three of them: Aban, him, and their father. Hashem had been barely fourteen years old. His favorite memory of that three-week trip was listening to his father and Aban talk by the campfire about rocks and mining and uranium deposits. Aban had just received his PhD and was eager to show off his knowledge to their father. That trip was when Hashem decided he was going to be a geologist, too.